


Into the Whale's Mouth

by jordinawrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: DCBB 2019, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2019, M/M, Natural Disasters, Storm Chasing, Storms, Tornadoes, not actual event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 04:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jordinawrites/pseuds/jordinawrites
Summary: “Last week, on May 28th, a tornado tore through my hometown…”Castiel’s father was a journalist and, in a vain attempt to connect with a man he never knew, wants to be one as well. So far, so good. Graduation is months away and all Castiel has left to tackle is a stubborn Senior Thesis article that he can’t find a topic for.Enter Dean Winchester, who’s let himself into Castiel’s shared apartment and littered the place with his computers, cameras, and his innate desire to throw himself in front of deadly storms and call himself a Chaser, all to keep the public form reliving his tragic childhood.Castiel finds himself “writing” from the shotgun seat and driving under stormy skies while trying to find the call of his father and falling for the man who risks his life for others.





	Into the Whale's Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a process. I didn't think I was in over my head when I signed up for my first DCBB, but I was very sorely mistaken. I'm just glad I dug deep for the determination to finish this story when most of the time I wanted to give up. In the end, I'm proud and accomplished, because this is the first time I've completed something of this magnitude, even if it's a measly 20k.
> 
> I'd like to extend a thanks to my beta, who knows who they are and who has asked to remain anonymous because of personal reasons. Again, thank you.
> 
> Another heartfelt thanks to [almaasi](https://almaasi.tumblr.com), who did an absolutely killer job on the art and I'm thoroughly in love with both pieces.Thank you so much for extending your talent. [Link to Art](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/tagged/jordinawrites).
> 
> And thank you all so much for finding this story interesting enough to open and read.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Into the Whale’s Mouth

Castiel doesn’t have a precise memory of the last Friday night he had free. It’s locked too deep in the recesses of his mind by caffeine-induced hazes brought on by term papers and night shifts at the nearby coffee shop. Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter anymore. This morning he took his last final of the semester and his last shift at the café had been yesterday. With the rest of his tuition covered by scholarships and rent covered by his barista tips, he has all the time in the world to worry about his senior thesis.

Which he doesn’t know what to write about.

He sighs as he climbs the steps to his second-floor apartment. Although the sun isn’t quite ready to set, nothing sounds as appealing as his bed and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. But, considering his last Friday off had been so long ago, he doesn’t think that’ll happen. 

Because, on Friday’s, Charlie has friends over.

Cas sees a piece of tape with a torn scrap of paper stuck to the door’s peephole. He assumes it was a flier advertising for wanted roommates – much like the one Castiel answered to get Charlie. More than likely, Charlie had ripped it away earlier. He takes the tape off as he unlocks and pushes through the door.

Due to the fantastically small size of the apartment, opening the front door lands him in the kitchen with a peninsula that finishes the tiny U shape of the area. It allows for a clear line of sight through into the living room, where Cas can see Dean Winchester sitting on the couch, with an assortment of camera equipment spread out on the coffee table in front of him, along with a laptop. Castiel’s sure the man heard him come in but he doesn’t acknowledge it by looking away from the laptop.

It gives Castiel a moment to compose himself from the shock of an unexpected guest and from the fact that the guest is Dean Winchester. Charlie has impeccable taste in men for sidekicks despite being about as straight as the path of a boomerang. 

Dean and his brother, Sam, are regular fixtures in the apartment and have been since before Castiel turned up. Typically, you’ll find them with Charlie, shouting and throwing snacks at each other over video games and movies. It’s all the more entertaining than the actual entertainment on the television and Castiel has had the pleasure to be privy to it on more than one occasion in the past, but it’s been a couple of months since he’s seen them all, apart from Charlie.

Castiel isn’t surprised to see that Dean is still unfairly attractive from every angle.

“Hey, Charles. Needed to use that Domino’s insurance? What’s the excuse this time? Lost it to Pennywise?” Dean asks, finally looking up at Castiel standing in the front door. His expression goes from teasing and expectant to surprised, cheeks tingeing pink. “You’re not Charlie.” He recovers and stands.

“No.”

Dean grins and it’s stomach swooping. “Hey, Cas. Charlie went out with Sam a while ago. They’re supposed to be getting pizza down in the Village, but you and I both know they’re probably talking up those girls in that hippie shop next door.”

Cas knows the exact shop Dean’s describing; it’s full of oils, charms, charts, and offering readings in the back. He’d been dragged in by Charlie to play wingman, not that she needed it. She claimed he needed good luck charms for his finals and then flirted with the tall, olive-toned clerk behind the register while he looked around.

“I’d just got back from a beer run and found the note and key, so I let myself in.” Dean’s still a little flushed from being caught off guard but he walks to lean against the edge of the kitchen peninsula, trying to play it off as Castiel turns to shut the door behind him.

He’s a little distracted by the way the color offsets the green of his eyes and highlights the faint dusting of freckles along the top of his cheekbones. Cas always thinks it when he sees Dean, but the man is every male model’s nightmare: plush lips, cut jaw, straight teeth, tall, and broad. His only visible flaw – to some, but not Cas – are his bowed legs. It’s enough to make anyone a little weak in the knees, but Dean goes the extra mile.

Castiel’s been fed more times than he can count by him and has even had his car looked over because Dean happened to be in the complex’s parking lot when Cas pulled in and noticed a tire losing air. He discovered a nail, changed the tire out for the spare, and then demanded Castiel take his “godforsaken pimp-mobile” to Singer Auto where he worked to get a new tire. Castiel even got a family discount.

Castiel can admit he’s attracted and crushing – no matter how juvenile it sounds- on Dean, but, on the other side, he’s sure everybody is.

Castiel gives him a polite smile, heart rushing. “Unless you admit you’ve broken the bathroom window to get in, I’ll assume you were invited. Besides, you’re always welcome.”

Dean relaxes a bit, almost as if he was bracing for Cas to throw him out. “No windows harmed, promise.”

“Okay,” Castiel nods and then walks past the man, not meaning to inhale the sandalwood and car polish that lingers around him but reveling in it all the same. He means to put his book bag in his room and fret over what to talk about with Dean when he’s lightly tugged back by the arm. He glances down at Dean’s fingers pressed gently into the crease of his elbow and feels the warmth through his thin jacket.

“You wanna stick around for some pizza and games? You’re always welcome, too, Cas.”

Again, the extra mile. Castiel smile, looser and more flattered. “Of course, thank you.”

Cas decides to strip to more comfortable clothes, a pair of joggers and a plain black tee, keeping his feet socked and stepping lightly back into the living room. He managed to work himself into a slight panic partway down the small hall but stubbornly keeps his head up and shoulders relaxed. He’s working through a mental list of talking points when he has to pause as he enters the living room. 

Dean’s hooked his laptop up to the television set and is studying the photograph on the screen intently. It’s a beautiful picture of a lightning bolt illuminating the night, a piercing white light through the center of the frame and casting a nearly purple glow over the field. But most impressive are the pair of oak trees in the middle of it, the one on the left is reduced to nothing but a skeletal frame within the blinding light of the strike. Dean taps over to the next frame where Cas can see that the same tree is smoldering from the inside before he switches back to the previous photo. Dean whistles low and impressed before looking towards Cas.

“Awesome, huh?” 

Castiel isn’t one to warm up to people quickly. Everybody tends to think he has a chip on his shoulder or, ineloquently, a stick up his ass. Even Charlie admits she’d call him a “prickly pear” when they first met, but Dean is different. There’s gravity about him that pulls Castiel closer, even though he’s only known him for a few months. The childlike enthusiasm over a picture is contagious and Castiel smiles in both revelry and awe along with him.

“It’s stunning.”

“Felt the hairs on my arms stand up after this one,” Dean says like it’s a casual occurrence to be close enough to lightning to see that happen. “It’s not the tornado I was looking for, but this is just as good. Probably better.”

Castiel’s brain screeches to a halt and he turns to stare at Dean. He’s sure he misheard that sentence. “I’m sorry, what?”

Dean’s face slowly loses its giddiness as it follows Castiel’s confusion. “What?”

“You were _looking_ for a tornado?”

“Uh…yeah?”

“Why?”

“It’s what I do?”

They stare at each other. Dean looks up from the couch while Castiel watches him from his spot at the mouth of the apartment’s only hall. Neither of them knows what to do for a few moments before Dean breaks their gaze. He clears his throat and that lovely flush is back on his face, appraising his photo before returning to Castiel. This time understanding clears his face.

“I don’t think you know what I do,” he says.

“I thought you were a mechanic.”

Dean sighs and pats the couch, indicating for Cas to sit down. Slowly, Castiel makes his way to him and sinks down on the cushion.

“I am, but during storm season, I’m a spotter for the NWS, uh, the weather service.”

Castiel has no idea why but he says, “Do you get hazard pay?”

Dean’s shocked for a second before laughter bubbles past his lips and his falling back into the couch in a fit. It’s Castiel’s turn to blush as he sinks back into the couch, but for a very different reason; he hopes it’ll swallow him whole like that stupid Simpsons meme.

“That’s a first,” Dean wipes at his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a while.”

“I think it’s a completely appropriate question.”

“Sure, but most people go around criticizing me instead. We don’t, by the way, we’re volunteers for the most part. Any money I make is off of stuff like that.” Dean points at the image on the television screen.

Castiel looks at the picture again. Dean’s a storm chaser. They’re almost a joke now. Anyone with a camera and a car can claim to be one but Dean sounds trained. He wouldn’t be working with a professional service if he wasn’t. Were chasers still relevant in this day and age? Especially with all of the radar technology available, what’s the point of having people look for them? How are storms spotted by eye in the first place?

When questions begin popping up left and right, Castiel starts itching to sit in front of his computer or head to the library to answer them. But all these questions can be answered by the man sitting next to him. Suddenly, Castiel’s found the perfect topic for his senior thesis.

“Dean?” Castiel asks.

At his attention, he takes a deep breath, shoulders and all, and sits forward to turn his body perpendicular to the back of the couch, all to face Dean. The man looks intrigued but skeptical at Cas’ change in posture.

“Can I do a story about you?” Dean immediately looks horrified and Castiel is quick to tack on, “It’ll be an article about storm chasing. I can use it for my senior thesis.” After a moment of silence, he adds, “Please?”

Charlie comes through the door with her signature, “What’s up, bitches?”

She has a couple of pizza boxes balanced in one hand, what looks like smudged lipstick on her cheekbone, and Cheshire grin. Sam, who’s following her, has that same giddy glow about him as he carries in a box of El Sol. When Cas looks to Dean, he’s looking suspiciously at the pair in the kitchen. 

What ensues is a debacle of teasing from Dean over his little brother’s double date followed by a litany of half-hearted curses when Sam asks if he can use Dean’s prized ’67 Impala as transportation. Dean’s a bit red in the face but caves as Sam promises to have _her_ back by eleven and in pristine condition. 

Castiel watches on in amusement at the scene, sipping from a beer Charlie handed to him as she plopped into one of the two armchairs. There’s a warmth in his heart at being here like he’s part of a big family. Well, a family that’s just bigger than him and his mother. With friends like these, it’s hard to be homesick.

“It’s probably better that way anyway. Me and Cas are gonna hang out tomorrow while you two are out.”

Castiel chokes on his beer and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Dean’s looking at him like he’s about to recant that statement. “For what?”

“Your article-thesis-thing?”

His heart is pounding in his chest from nearly dying and having Dean accept his request. “Uh, yeah, yes. That’s fine. Thank you.”

“Awesome. I’ll be over when I drop him off so he can get Charlie and the girls,” Dean says and that’s the end of it. He reaches over to his laptop on the table and disconnects it from the television and starts putting all his equipment away. 

Charlie and Sam are looking at them funny and share a glance between each other that’s quickly broken when they realize Cas is looking. Sam shoves a piece of pizza in his mouth from where he’s standing in the kitchen and declares, around his full mouth, that they should play a few rounds of Mario Kart.

Dean stands to move his stuff out of the way and when he sits back down, he’s closer to Cas, handing him a plate of pizza as he sets his own down to pick up a controller. Cas feels something impending. He can’t be sure of what, but every time Dean moves, he brushes Cas and he can’t seem to care about the future right now.

*****

“You only had a few beers last night,” Charlie says as she peeks her head through the open crack of Castiel’s door.

He groans and buries his face into his pillow. The headache pounding in his temples is more reminiscent of being dehydrated than acutely hungover, but it doesn’t make him want to move to get a glass of water. He opens one eye to squint at Charlie when he hears soft footfalls on the carpet. She has a glass of water for him in one hand and what’s obviously a book wrapped in Kraft paper.

“I got the mail. I was just gonna leave this on the counter but it’s from your mother.” 

Castiel sits up, headache pulsing, and takes the book and water she hands him. He turns it over in his hands. The wrapping is neat with a string of twine tied around it, holding in place an envelope with his name on it in his mother’s handwriting. He looks up at Charlie. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m going to work. I’ll see you later.”

As she leaves, he slips the envelope through the twine and thumbs it open. 

_For all the questions I couldn’t – and wouldn’t – answer._

_I found it in a box of his things._

_ -Love, Mom_

It’s a black leather-bound journal, weathered by time and the lack of insulation in what was probably the attic. When he opens it, there’s a date on the inside cover in the upper left-hand corner and a grainy black and white photograph taped in the middle. It takes a moment for Castiel to recognize the image as an ultrasound before he rereads the date…which is approximately seven and a half months before he was born. 

Written at the top of the first page is a standard letter greeting, _Dear Baby,_ and Castiel doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but he knows who was writing.

Castiel closes it and sets it on the bed beside him. He gulps down his water and stands. He’ll need a cup of coffee before he deals with this… before he _wants_ to deal with it. For a few moments, he’s still half asleep and the appearance of his father’s journal has left a strange hollow feeling in his gut. He’s in front of the coffee machine when he starts to recognize the flush of irritation. 

Why did his mother send him this now? He spent most of his childhood asking after his father and the most his mother ever told him was that he’d been taken by the angels. It wasn’t until middle school that he learned anything more and that was because he had to do a family history project for English. He was supposed to focus on his ancestors and determine where he came from and only managed to squeak by when he explained to his teacher that his father died before he was born. 

His dad’s name was James Cain Novak and he was born in Pontiac, Illinois at the same hospital Castiel was born twenty-eight years later. A quick google search revealed article after article from Pontiac’s local paper. His father was a journalist. Castiel isn’t going to lie and say he didn’t choose his major because of his dad. During college applications, he didn’t hesitate to declare his major, because he saw it as an opportunity to do what his dad did, to feel closer to him. His mother didn’t say anything about it. She didn’t even look surprised, just smiled and gave him a big hug when he was accepted and told him how proud she was.

Cas looks back at that moment in frustration. His mother could have told him, then, about his father, anything that he hadn’t learned from his own research but she kept quiet. Castiel doesn’t even recall being shown a picture of his dad.

He takes his cup back into his room and stares at the book nestled in the sheets. It’s intimidating, he realizes. He’s getting answers and there’s a gnawing pit that’s worried they won’t be what he wanted. There’s nothing to be done about it now except read until there’s nothing left to read in a vain attempt to understand a man he’ll never know. But he sits and sips at his coffee and opens the book again.

_Dear Baby,_

_ Colette came home with news of you, much to both of our surprise. We had been sure – “extremely positive” on your mother’s (isn’t that a new word for us?) end – it was just the flu she picked up from her kids at the school. She was pale-faced on the couch when I got home, holding this tiny photo of you as nothing more than a dot, a bean. Apparently, this past Christmas had been more joyful than past ones. (A piece of me hopes that you won’t question that sentence until I’m mentally prepared to answer it). _

_ Words cannot encompass the joy the lingers in my heart and that sings when I think about it. Only your mother could ever understand and when she saw my excitement, I watched as she let herself feel a love she was holding at bay until I knew. _

_ A family. _

_ I have a family. Something that was taken from me and felt too far to reach._

_ My love for you and your mother at this point in time is a more profound feeling that I could have ever imagined. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life ensuring that you understand that._

_ Your father (another new word),_

_ James Cain Novak _

_ (so you can’t forget)_

Castiel doesn’t believe himself to be an impulsive person, but there’s a whirlwind spinning in his head and gut and he grabs his phone. 

_Do you know the things other kids said about me? The teasing I had to endure because I had no information to defend myself with? You thought all of that was better than telling me his damn name?_

He sends the text in anger and only feels a little bit of regret. His mother is most likely at her gardening club this morning and wouldn’t see it until later. He doesn’t know what she has to say or what he’ll say in return.

He leaves the journal on his bed and goes about getting ready for the day.

It turns out that Dean has a YouTube channel. There are over a hundred videos, all ranging from unique cloud formations to nearly killing himself by accidentally placing himself in the path of a large tornado. That one, in particular, caused undue stress to Cas’ heart. But there are other videos, too. Like how to change your car’s oil and time-lapses of classic car restorations all done by Dean himself. So far, Castiel’s favorite is a three-minute karaoke performance of Dean singing a rather bad rendition of a Bon Jovi song. It’s hard to tell if the man is drunk or not, but the way Charlie is laughing gleefully behind the camera is any indication, everyone probably was. 

It brings a smile to his face as he admires Dean’s alcoholic flush and slurred lyrics and tells himself that it’s all for research when he catches his own dopey expression in the reflection of his laptop screen.

He spends the rest of the morning and early afternoon clicking through the suggested feed of videos, watching everything from tornado science and odd cloud formations. The Weather Channel sucks him in with Storm Stories as he watches in horror at the devastation of entire towns. He hasn’t realized how much time had passed until Charlie’s skipping through the door with a chipper “Hello, Hot Wings” and headed to her room. He hears her door shut and he goes back to reading through a storm spotter forum about how to stay ahead of a storm.

Charlie spends the next thirty minutes or so locked in her bedroom while Castiel researches, until she violently swings the door open, hard enough that Castiel flinches at the _twing_ the doorstop makes as the door bounces off of it. In the next moment, she’s standing in front of table Cas is sitting at, her hair in curlers. 

“Oh my god, you have a date with Dean!”

Castiel blinks at her and can feel heat tendrils creeping up his neck. “It’s not a date.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don’t think interviewing him for an article counts.”

She steals the seat across from him and leans across the table. “That’s what a first date is. You gotta get to know them.”

“I already know him, Charlie.”

“Cas, come on,” she pleads, “work with me here. Dean’s been eager all day.”

“What?”

Charlie slips her phone from where it’s nestled in her bra and taps at it. When she turns it to him, there’s a text conversation between her and Dean from ten minutes ago and he’s asking what to wear. Charlie puts her phone away and Castiel’s left staring blankly into space, trying to process. Castiel is the one with the stupid crush. The only one. Right?

“Uh…” He doesn’t know what to say.

“Seriously? He’s been hitting on you from day one. He doesn’t feed everybody you know? Or fix their cars for practically nothing.”

“What?” He says again because she has to be joking. Dean was only being friendly. It was just a favor for a friend of a friend. That’s what he said.

But when Castiel thought about it, deeply in a way that would let his imagination get the best of him, maybe there were lingering touches, not as cocky smiles, over-eager offers to make food or check the oil in Cas’ ancient Continental. 

“Oh, you both are hopeless.” Her phone pings and when she looks at it she hops out of the chair. “They’re on their way.” She gives Castiel a once over and then squints. 

Castiel feels strangely exposed and hunches over his computer, ignoring her gaze. 

“You should put some actual pants on,” she says as she walks back down the hall, undoing the curls in her hair.

He looks down at his grey sweats and feels a rush of embarrassment over all of the times he’s worn them in Dean’s presence, including last night. Did the man actually like this look?

He nearly trips over the table’s leg to get to his bedroom.

*****

Castiel was never a sociable child. He was almost always found behind the leg of his mother or clutching her hand in a crowd. As he grew older, he didn’t put himself in a position for strangers to ask questions, quietly observing instead of at the forefront of a group. Although he's done well enough throughout his courses, he hasn't veered towards a subject that would require an interview with a living person. 

And interviewing Dean Winchester is borderline panic-inducing. 

The problem is he doesn’t know where to start without seeming like he’s secretly been watching everything he could about storm chasing on YouTube. He has questions, but they’re scattered all across notes he’s been taking while watching those videos and none of them would make any sense to ask if he hadn’t already had knowledge about the subject beforehand.

Add the fact that Cas’ supposed one-sided crush might not be so one-sided just compiles onto the nervousness buzzing under his skin.

He’s properly dressed now, in jeans and t-shirt but still barefoot, and gathers himself at the kitchen peninsula. Charlie’s taken the curlers from her hair and is lounging on the couch, one leg thrown up along the back, as she grins and taps furiously on her phone. Castiel smiles to himself, happy she’s excited.

There’s a knock on the door and Castiel can always tell when it’s Dean.

Charlie pops up from the couch and hurries towards the door before he can even move despite his closer proximity. When she opens it, Dean’s facing his brother, pinching the Impala’s keys in between his fingers and dangling them in front of Sam’s face.

“…repeat: not a scratch or so help me I’ll –” 

“Shave his head while he sleeps, we know Dean. Thank you. Bye!” Charlie says as she grabs the keys, then Sam, and drags his down the hall he just came up, leaving Dean standing in the open doorway, dumbfounded. Castiel watches as he shuffles into the apartment, closing the door behind him, all the while clearly wondering what just happened. Until he sees Cas sitting at the peninsula. He smiles and then slides into the seat next to him.

“Hey, Cas.”

His heart rate kicks into gear but he does his best to not let it bleed into his voice. “Hello, Dean.”

“I ordered some Chinese before we left my place. Should be here soon.”

“Okay, thanks.” Castiel doesn’t know what to do or say after that. He’s never been alone with Dean before. Charlie or Sam are buffers, always talking and changing the subject. Castiel doesn’t know how to do that. So, what ensues is awkward silence while Cas pretends to organize his notes.

“You’re making me nervous, Cas,” Dean says. He’s smiling but, even in his slouched position against the peninsula, he’s a bit tense.

“That’s a feat, considering I’m making myself nervous,” Castiel sighs and closes his laptop, where he’d been wanting to write out some of Dean’s answers, and dumps his notes on top of it. “Sorry. This type of journalism isn’t what I’m used to.”

“There are types?”

“Of course. Most of what I’ve done for projects could be accomplished in a library or on the internet. Interviewing people hasn’t ever been high on my want-to-do list.”

“I can see that.”

Something about the way Dean says that pricks Cas the wrong way. He narrows his eyes at Dean. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean puts his hands up and finally relaxes back into the chair. “Nothing really. You’re the nose-in-book type,” he turns himself slightly on the stool, resting his elbow on the counter to lean his head against his fist as he looks at Cas, “Sam’s like that.”

“You didn’t read much growing up?”

“Maybe. I think I read enough. I’m not stupid; I was just more excited to be outside.”

“I can see that,” Cas echoes and watches Dean smile again. “Is that how you began storm chasing?”

“It was more of my dad lugging us around the country doing it himself.”

Castiel rips a blank sheet of paper from his nearby notebook and jots down some of the information he has on Dean. “Your dad was a chaser?”

“It was a side-effect. He liked taking photos. The more dramatic, the better. And what’s a better photo than a national disaster.” Dean’s lip takes a distinct downward turn and he sits up to fold his arms on the table and leaning into him. “He taught me how to work a camera and how to get out of a storm’s way but that was it. I taught myself everything else.”

“What does it consist of?”

“Depends. Most local spotters just take a training course and get a certificate.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Pretty much, but sometimes you need more than that. Especially if you’re going out for killer pictures.”

“And you have more than a certificate?”

“Does experience count?” Dean takes a breath of air and continues, “I audited some atmospheric science courses at the university, but don’t tell Sam.”

“Why?”

“He has this holier than thou concept about school. Thinks I could accomplish more if I had a degree from an _actual_ university.”

“You don’t agree?”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess. But I don’t see it. I’m as educated as anyone with a degree, my proof is experience rather than a glorified piece of paper. Which is valued more, by the way.” 

Castiel understands. His life after college is going to be daunting considering he only has classroom journalism under his belt and nothing that’s from the _real-world_ to contribute. He shudders at the thought he might become someone’s P.A. 

“Besides, rookies wouldn’t be able to notice danger from their right elbow.”

“How’s that?”

“All those awesome pictures I take?” Dean grins, “I spend weeks trying to get. Sometimes it doesn’t happen for years. A structured photogenic storm his hard to come by. But that’s all anyone sees. Tornadoes can form in the most ugly lookin’ thing imaginable and level and entire city, and no one would be looking for it because they don’t see that cake layer of a meso.”

Castiel is glad for his research when Dean starts to get ranty. He starts using terms and phrases that he wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t binge-watched Dean’s entire upload history. The “meso” he talks about is the shortened form for mesocyclone, something that Castiel roughly understands as a swirling updraft of air in a thunderstorm. It’s part of what makes those alien-like formations in the clouds of supercells – another term for a type of thunderstorm. And as Dean keeps going on about Bear’s Cages and RFDs and chasers and adrenaline junkies, Castiel starts to fall a little deeper for the man. 

He’s animated; hands waving, eyes rolling, mouth frowning or laughing, knees jigging up and down as he speaks. Dean’s a sight to see and Castiel forgets about his interview and just asks questions to keep him going; his favorite picture, his favorite chase, if he is still awestruck by nature despite being exposed to it for so long. And Dean just keeps talking. At one point Dean asks to borrow Castiel’s laptop to open his Google photos to show him an example of one of those “ugly” storms.

“What about you? Why storm chasing?” Dean asks after he’s finished. He shoves a huge bite of orange chicken that arrived midway into a story about being sideswiped by an invisible twister into his mouth and it’s gross, but it’s endearing. 

Castiel blushes. “I, um, liked the pictures you took.” Dean looks unimpressed and waits for Castiel to continue. “I needed to find the appeal and also a topic for my senior thesis. What’s the saying? Two birds…”

“Sure, makes sense,” Dean teases, like he doesn’t quite believe him, but lets it go as he chews. “Any more questions?”

Castiel figures this shot is as good as any and the only downside is that Dean will say no but help him for the rest of this article.

“One.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you take me with you?”

*****

_Dear Baby,_

_ You’re making your mother very sick. She doesn’t seem to mind being miserable. It’s admirable, considering I have more anxiety about her being ill than she does. My hovering doesn’t seem irritable, yet, but I’m willing to have her bite my head off to make sure the both of you have all that you need. Have certainty that that will always be true._

_ Your Father_

Castiel silenced his phone for the “interview”, only taking it out when Dean asked for his number – how his heart leaped – and he knew he had notifications but he couldn’t care less when Dean called for an end to the twenty questions and more time taking advantage of Charlie’s PS4. 

Now with Dean gone and Castiel back in loose pajama pants and damp hair, he pays more attention to the plethora of texts and calls. All from his mother.

A stone settles in his gut as he remembers what he sent her and he can see the beginning of the latest text in the preview window of his messenger. She wants him to call, wants to ap – it cuts off there but Castiel knows she wants to say sorry; he just doesn’t know if he’ll be willing to accept it. So, he marks the messages as read without reading them and clears his voicemail cache without listening. He’ll see about talking to her tomorrow and thinks about how Dean agreed, although hesitantly, to his request. 

He’ll be storm chasing as soon as Dean can find the perfect storm. Apparently, Cas picked the right time of year to finish his college career as the last few months of the school year are considered prime storm season. Dean warned that they might not get anything this time around, nothing noteworthy to really write about, but that he’ll take him to show him the work that goes into spotting and how it’s more than getting into a car and driving.

He settles down in his bed and picks up his father’s diary.

_Dear Baby,_

_ Two things have happened to me today, but I think I will start with the one that is causing me the most pain._

_ My father died this morning. Your grandfather. I don’t know that you’ll be old enough to understand how this hurt, but if you are at a point where you can, please understand that the pain that comes from this loss is not about the loss itself. _

_ Your grandfather was a mean and unkind man. He drank and yelled and drank. He was unpleasant at best and abusive at worst. Never once do I recall the man telling me that he was proud of me or that he loved me. Never did he pick up a baseball and glove and teach me how to throw it clear across the yard. Had I been taught by the man how to change a flat, I would’ve never been stranded on the 55 into Joliet where I had reservations at a new, expensive restaurant with your mother when we’d started dating. She was coming out of Chicago from weekend with family and thought I’d blew her off. As fate would have it, your mother found me on the side of the road and had to change my tire herself. For a boy of nearly twenty-two, the embarrassment of having a woman change my tire nearly killed me._

_ I’ve been hit by the back of the man’s hand more than I can remember and have had curses flung at me daily. My mother fared no better. But where she was disillusioned with her war hero, I had had enough. College got me away and I stayed away. My mother, your grandmother, followed soon after. _

_ The time between my leaving and the knowledge that my father was put into a home, stretched nearly thirteen years. Today, at the time of his death, I hadn’t spoken to him since cursing him out myself on our old front porch, fifteen years ago._

_ So why do I feel the pain in his loss?_

_ Because only a few hours after my mother called to tell me the news, I took your mother to the doctor for a check-up and ultrasound. Today we found out that you will be a boy._

_ And every inch of me is terrified that something will make me the man that my father was. That I will lash out with my anger and drive you away from me. Colette thinks I’m insane. That, because my father was who he was, I would never be like him._

_ But how does she know?_

_ My mother always tells stories, with tears soaking her face, that her husband had taken her hand to help her over rain puddles or bought her flowers for their dates. But when he came home from Vietnam, he was different._

_ Who’s to say that between now and your birth, something happens and twists me so fundamentally that I could stomach laying a hand on you or your mother._

_ That uncertainty scares me. Being a father scares me. I don’t know what to do._

There’s a gap, three lines unfilled, before picking back up. The ink is different this time.

_ Colette made me take a break. She wanted to go over baby names again, except this time we threw out the girls list. She was distracting me from my head, but it worked and, though I can still feel that fear, I can feel the joy because she’ll be there next to me and I next to her._

_ In the end, I got to name you._

_ Castiel. My angel of Thursday._

_ Your Father_

His father’s journal entry breaks his heart and tears open anger in his chest. His father named him, after an angel no less, and his mother spent his entire life pretending that it was because it was unique. His own identity had been given to him by a man he never knew, a man who held so much love for his mother, wife, and son he hadn’t even met yet, and Castiel’s mother couldn’t even tell him that much. 

That phone call he promised to make to help clear the air waits another day.

He spends the day trading memes back and forth about the latest superhero movie with Dean and working on a bare-bones rough draft of his article. He wants something to discuss with his professor when classes start up again in a week.

He wonders if his father would write with a half-full cup of hour-old coffee sitting next to him at the table.

_Dear Castiel, _

_You feel more real now that you have your name. Although, you are being stubborn and giving me nothing in response to our little talks. Your mother gets to feel all your flutters and kicks, but as soon as I’m around, radio silence. I feel you love her more than me._

_I understand. Your mother is magnetic and joyful. She’s giving you life and it’s hard not to love her. _

_All I can hope is that when you’re older (much, much, older), that you find someone that hammers your heart, who kisses you softly and challenges your boundaries. Someone that laughs both with and at you and squeezes your hand tight in times of tragedy, because there will be those. And that let be anybody imaginable as long as they love you and you let_ _them love you._

_ Your Father_

Dean’s apologetic as if he’s the one who controls the weather. It’s been two weeks since he’d agreed to take Cas out – they’re well into April now – but nothing substantial has popped up. He wants to make it up to him by buying coffee at Cas’ old place of work. Charlie nearly squeals in delight and goes off to raid Castiel’s closet for appropriate coffee date attire. 

Being with Dean isn’t uncomfortable. Awkward at moments, because that’s just who Castiel is, but he’s never not wanted to be in the same room with the man. Especially when said man is more than willing to place his hand against Cas’ lower back to guide him through the doors to the café and insist that he’s paying for anything that Cas wants because he hasn’t been taken out to hunt down tornadoes yet.

It turns into an impromptu interview but only because Dean makes an offhand comment about the lacking TOR: CON predictions. Castiel notes it with his phone, asking questions about the tornado condition index as soon as Dean decodes the acronym. Apparently, nothing being forecasted in the weather is setting up for conditions that are prime for forming a tornado. 

“This is what being a chaser is. It’s a lot of thumbs up asses until something happens. Meanwhile, we all have our “day jobs”.” 

Dean’s allowed to leave his shift at Singer’s Restoration shop he works at because he co-owns it with his uncle, a man Dean calls Bobby who isn’t actually related but might as well be given the amount of times Dean’s father left his sons with the man.

But Dean swears his dad looked after him and Sam the majority of the time, trekking them across the country in the Impala. He launches into fond stories of his father taking both him and his brother storm chasing. Everything from blizzards to hurricanes, John Winchester was there to capture on film with Sam and Dean by his side. Dean glosses over a few “close-calls,” never going into detail but always lingering on the fact that his father kept them safe.

“Your mother was okay with all of that?” Cas thinks it’s an innocuous question, innocent in nature because he knows his own mother might have had a conniption if she found out someone drove her son into a blazing wildfire for dramatic footage. 

Apparently, he’s wrong. 

Ever since he met Dean, the man tends to emit emotion, even if he doesn’t want to, and it changes the atmosphere around them to a physical degree. Castiel knows he’s nicked a sore subject as he watches Dean’s smile tick downward and he looks away from Cas to ball up a napkin but tries to keep his buoyant attitude.

“If she were still here, maybe not.” As much as he tries not to, grief passes over his face for a moment of silence before it shifts. There’s a small smile on his lips, still sad but humorous. “I think she might’ve tracked us down and beat my dad to death with a newspaper if she found out. There was only one thing I can remember my dad being afraid of,” Dean starts to chuckle, “and that was Mom. The man was a Marine but if my mom gave him that look,” Dean whistles and falls silent.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean dips his chin slightly, acknowledging the sympathy, but doesn’t elaborate on how he lost his mother or even her name.

Castiel changes the subject then, moving on to restoration project Dean’s been going on about for the entire week they’ve been texting. Dean lights up, leaving the scrunched ball of paper alone and throwing his hands around as he talks shop and in terms Castiel pretends to understand.

Dean gives him a lingering stare when they get back to Castiel’s apartment. Cas knows he wants a goodbye kiss but something catches Dean’s attention behind Castiel and the man blushes before mumbling a “call you later” before walking down the hall. When Castiel turns around, Charlie’s sitting at the peninsula with Cheshire grin and a cup of coffee.

“I’m not sorry,” she says.

Castiel rolls his eyes and shuts the door, silently wishing she’d been in her room.

_Dear Castiel,_

_ I’m a man of few words, few emotions, outwardly or publicly. It’s how I’d raised myself, less weakness I suppose. No one can take my feelings and twist them like a knife to cut deep. Your mother says it makes me stoic and unapproachable. Grumpy, she’s called me on one or more occasions. _

_ I don’t suppose I have many friends because of it but at least the ones I do have are loyal and honest._

_ Why I’m writing this I don’t know._

_ I can’t tell if I want it to be cautionary, and tell you to be less like me, or if I’m encouraging it._

_ Colette thinks it’s “macho” but she says it in such a way that makes it sound like I shouldn’t be. _

_I made her upset today. She’d been trying to include me in the design of your nursery but I’m a writer, not an artist. Paint palettes, stencils, complementary colors, and all that should be left to your mother. All she wanted was to share in the excitement and joy at finally making room for you in the house. I was...am happy about it. And more excited than she knew. That was the problem._

_Emotionally distant. Is what she said._

_ Maybe being who I am makes it hard for her to reach me. But we hadn’t had any problems before. _

_ I’d like to blame it on hormones but it would be a lie. I can look at myself in the mirror and admit I can use some change._

_ Maybe I’m writing to let you know that change is good, but I think the heart of it is that I’m not sure how well I’ll be at showing affection so I’ll write it here, a hundred times in any language I can learn,_

_ I love you very much, no matter what._

_ Your Father_

His mother sends another text. It simply asks if he’s coming home for Easter.

Castiel doesn’t reply.

_Dear Castiel, _

_Your mother can give a cold shoulder icier than Walt Disney. I made a comment that was absolutely hurtful but I hadn’t realized until after the fact. It was a tasteless joke about the grocer potentially stopping us at the door to make sure your mother wasn’t smuggling a watermelon under her shirt. _

_ She would’ve incinerated me on the spot had she had the means. And it’s been almost 16 hours since she’s spoken to me._

_ I tried to explain that I’d only said it because of a recent arrest of a woman who’d been robbing a grocery store for months by pretending to be pregnant. Officers only realized it was here when they’d realized she’d been six months pregnant for nine months._

_ I should’ve led with that, I know, but my mouth runs faster than my mind._

_ I slept on the couch last night and I think an expensive date night is in the works._

_ Think before you speak, son. You don’t know about the perception of others._

_ Your Father_

It’s the last Friday of April. A grand total of six weeks has passed since his mother sent his father’s journal. He hasn’t talked to her since. She texted him a few times, seeming to understand that he needed some time to think but that she hoped he’d come back to Illinois for Easter so that they could talk. That was almost a week ago. He spent it with Dean, along with Sam, Charlie, and their respective significant others. 

Now, she’s calling; leaving frantic voicemails that have gotten more tearful as the week nears its end. She’s sobbing apologies in her newest one and Castiel can’t listen for long. His gut churns with guilt and he wants to call. But every time he goes to dial the only number he’s ever managed to memorize; his father’s journal catches his gaze and reminds him why he’s angry. He thinks that maybe his mother should go a little longer not getting any answers either.

It’s petty and childish, but he doesn’t want to talk yet.

And despite only being “_together_ together” – as Charlie calls it – for a month, Dean knows something’s wrong, but won’t say as much.

Dean pulls him into the Impala instead and takes him 30 minutes south, to a tiny town named Ottawa, and parks his boat of a car beside red brick pillars supporting the town’s pentagonal welcome sign. A few miles in the distance, Castiel can see the small-town shop fronts and decrepit roofs on long-abandoned buildings. Cars are sparse and only linger at the towns seemingly single stoplight for a few seconds. Some don’t linger at all. A tumbleweed eventually bouncing down the street seems inevitable.

Cas has no idea what they’re doing between browning cow pastures and crumbling, old-town charm.

“So…,” Dean trails. The engine ticks as it cools and the sun briefly vanishes behind clouds; they’re clumped together like sheep wool that let the sun pass through in a dirty yellow color or block it out entirely. Castiel tries to remember what they mean in field forecasting but he’s sure he’s mixing it up with another variation.

“Talk to me. What’s up?” Dean says, turning himself to lean back against the driver’s door.

Castiel had his phone in his lap for the duration of the drive and, now, finds it an excellent source of avoidance.

The silence stretches. Dean sighs and reaches into the backseat; flips open the green cooler he has on the floor and pulls out two beers and plastic bags with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He hands one of each to Cas and opens both of his. Castiel watches him pop the cap off with the ring he wears on his right hand. Dean takes a pull of his beer and Cas can see his throat flutter with the draw.

Dean’s unfairly attractive. And downright imposing when he’s looking at Cas with a composed patience that’s chilling. Castiel opens his own beer, using the opener Dean has on his key ring, and downs half the bottle because the last thing he wants to do is dump his _mommy issues_ on the guy he really likes.

“Those clouds?” Dean points after realizing he won’t get an answer. “Altocumulus. Storm is coming.”

Cas didn’t bring his notebook, hadn’t realized this would be a chasing expedition, and now there’s no way he’s going to remember anything.

“Don’t worry. I’ll film in a bit and you have me to fill in the blanks,” Dean says and smiles but it falls into concern just as quickly. “Really, Cas. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We’re good, though? Right?” Dean looks uncharacteristically unsure of himself as he digs into the Ziploc bag for his sandwich.

“Yes. It’s nothing about you. Or us.” Castiel hesitates, “Just some…family issues.”

“Okay, cool.” 

Castiel reaches for his own sandwich and they sit in silence for a few moments until Dean reaches over and twists the keys in the ignition to start the car’s battery. The radio jumps to life in the middle of the Blue Oyster Cult’s _Don’t Fear the Reaper_. Castiel is secretly pleased he can pinpoint the name. Dean had been righteously offended when he’s discovered nearly all of Castiel’s playlists consisted of “indie-alternative crap.” He’s also proud to say he’s turned at least a portion of Dean to the dark side with Ludo. But in Dean’s “Baby,” the driver picks the music. 

“Is there a reason we’ve parked out here?” Cas mumbles through a mouthful of sandwich.

Dean shrugs and takes another drink. “We’re in an area of enhanced risk. Lots of potential for supercells.”

“Tornadoes?”

“Not necessarily. They’re harder to come by than you think.” Another bite. “Lightning is pretty cool though.” It’s muffled and he smiles, lips closed and cheeks puffed out with the bite he took. Castiel laughs at the expression, forgetting the heavy weight of the guilt in his stomach.

They’ve pressed against each other, scooting across the Impala’s bench seat to watch some of Dean’s videos he has on his laptop. Dean has his arm behind Cas, along the back of seat as Cas twists himself slightly to lean back against him in the space he’s created. Dean’s pointing out weather features he’s filmed as he skims through footage, showing Cas pieces from a video where Dean ventured too close to a tornado bearing down on him. He can hear the panic bleeding through the laptop’s tinny speakers as Dean yells at other drivers on the road to speed up as the wind knocks the back end of the Jeep – his chase car – and spins him around on the road. Cas has seen the edited version on Dean’s YouTube, but this footage is frightening.

“You sound terrified,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean hums. They listen to the sound of his ragged breathing before the video stops and he clicks over into another folder. “That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Hadn’t been that close to death before.” He scrolls through video files before pausing. “That’s not true. I was probably closer when I was four.”

Castiel twists his neck to look up at him in surprise. “Your father took you out when you were that young?”

Dean looks down at him, eyebrows pulled together with a frown. “No. Didn’t I tell you?”

This time he sits up. “Tell me what?”

“Sam never said anything?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if he did.”

Dean analyzes him, eyes dancing across his face before his gaze locks past him and out the window. He chews on his lower lip, thinking pros and cons about whatever he’s about to say. When he’s done, Cas isn’t sure he wants to know if Dean going to continue to look like someone’s about to pull his fingernails. But Dean gives a little shake of the head and motions for Cas to lay back against him.

“Um,” he starts and then stops. He scrolls through his list of videos and finds what he was looking for. The paused clip is of smooth, layered clouds stretching as wide as the frame like round tiers of a cake. 

“An F5 tore through Lawrence when I was a kid. Before the Enhanced Fujita. Not that it would’ve mattered, the scale probably wouldn’t have changed. Everything was gone; trees were in houses, cars were in trees, foundations had been stripped clean, fires had started despite the rain.

“I’d been asleep and my dad snatched me out of bed and ran me to the basement. My mom had Sam – he was just a baby – and then it was loud, like being at those air shows when the fighter jets take off but a hundred at once. 

“Have you ever heard the sound of two-by-fours exploding? Not cracking or splintering, just being blown apart? And the pressure… my ears hurt so bad…”

“Dean,” Castiel reaches out to grab the hand clutching the top of the seat behind Cas and pulls him from the memory. Dean catches his eye with the childlike terror fading from his eyes.

Dean clears his throat. “It was over so quickly; I had no idea what happened. It was dark and Sammy was screaming bloody murder. My parents were talking to each other but all I can remember is smelling gas.

“My dad found a way out and my mom handed me and Sam off to him, but the hole caved in.”

Dean laughs despite squeezing Castiel’s hand so tight he can’t feel his pinky. His free hand reaches out to pet the Impala’s dash. “Dad had parked her on the curb, don’t know why, but she wasn’t in the garage. I can remember him saying “Holy hell” before being thrown into the backseat and being told to buckle Sam into the car seat.”

“The Impala wasn’t damaged?” Castiel asked.

“The windshield had a golf ball-sized spider webbing in it and her paint was scratched, but yeah, she was intact. Dad locked us in with the keys he kept in the glove compartment and went back to help my mom. But that’s when the fire started and she was trapped.”

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

Dean loosens his grip to brush his thumb along Castiel’s hand. “Thanks.” It’s quiet and lost to memory.

“Didn’t even realize I was in trouble until I was being told to lay still as I was given a CT scan.” Dean’s hair is short but he uses his free hand to push back the little length he does have away from the hairline. Cas sits up to see where Dean is gesturing. “They think it was glass, given how smooth the cut was.” 

Tucked up in the very front of his hairline is a slightly raised, thin, white scar about three inches long. Castiel reaches up to run his fingers along it. Dean takes the opportunity to duck down and press his lips to Cas’. It’s awkward with the way Castiel’s head is angled against Dean’s shoulder but better than the would-be kiss from the other week. He tastes like grape jelly and El Sol and his lips are soft enough for Castiel to do this forever.

A semi rumbles down the highway into town a moment later. The wind it makes as it passes rolls the car side to side and it’s enough to make them separate. His mouth tingles from the kiss and he can’t help but press his fingertips to his lips as if he’d be able to feel them buzzing. Dean doesn’t look much better. His cheeks are flushed and he’s chewing on his own lip, looking down at the notebook in his lap. He lets out a little huff of laughter.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve done that,” he says, almost as if in disbelief.

Castiel doesn’t know what that means, especially since all they did was press their mouths together in a kiss that could only be described as chaste. “Well, I haven’t ever done that, so…” He’s sure he’s sprouted another limb the way Dean whips his attention to him, mouth agape in abject horror. Castiel’s stomach drops at the expression and he sits up again.

“What? Shit. Cas, I’m sorry. I –”

“I’m an adult and my choices are my own.”

“You deserve better than a middle school peck in a car, Cas.”

“I thought it was nice.”

“Yeah, hell of a first experience, huh?” Dean’s face is dismal as he sinks down in his seat and tips his head to lay back against the cushions.

“Yes,” Cas says stubbornly, before slipping to match Dean’s position. He rolls his head along the seat to look at Dean. He’s staring at the Impala’s roof and has his arms crossed along his chest. “I will admit I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

Dean flushes dark and slides further down into his seat, sulking suspiciously. “Maybe not this fast, but… y' know. Maybe?” He mumbles. When he looks towards Cas, he groans and tosses his hands out. “You’re hot, okay.”

Laughter bursts out of Castiel and he can feel tears well up in the corner of his eye. He’s never seen a man look so put out and petulant after admitting he finds someone attractive. He’s also never been in a situation like this, on the side of an unfamiliar highway and with the man who just kissed him. The whole ordeal is laughable and he loves the high it gives him.

Admittedly, laughing after someone kisses him isn’t the ideal reaction so Castiel reaches out the touch Dean’s elbow. “I would like to do it again if that means anything.”

“Ha!” Dean snorts, but he smiles and doesn’t answer. He does, however, catch Castiel’s hand and laces their fingers across the bucket seat and pulls them back together.

“Dean? Dean, what is that?” Castiel asks.

Once their little make-out session ended, Dean pulled out a battery adapter for the car and plugged in his computer. They’d made it halfway through _Raiders _when Dean paused it to set up his cameras to capture time-lapse. As he did that, Castiel watched out the windshield as the makings of a mild storm formed on the western horizon. They’d finished the movie and gotten about fifteen minutes into _Temple of Doom_ when Castiel is distracted by something that isn’t Dean trying to start up another round of making out. 

He knows it’s only an hour or so past noon, so the mysterious disappearance of the sun causes him to look out the window. Out in front of them, hovering like an eerie UFO over Ottawa is a long rolling line of clouds. It looks strikingly similar to some of Dean’s video from earlier. The clouds stretch from one end of the horizon to the other; it goes for miles. The leading edge of it is rubbed smooth by wind and folds back underneath the system. Rain falls in a black-gray sheet behind it and he can see lightning flash every once in a while. It’s massive and dark and rolling straight for them.

“Relax, it’s not going to kill us,” Dean says, closing the Netflix window. He’s opening another window and adds, “Well, hopefully not, but sometimes you can get a spin up.”

Despite the amount of trust he has in Dean and his chasing abilities, Castiel’s mind conjures up the terror in Dean’s voice as he was nearly thrown from the road by a rain-wrapped twister. 

Dean must see the look on Cas’ face because he chuckles and taps his computer screen. There are radar images up relative to their position. It’s just a blob of green, yellow and red curving outward in the center like an archer’s bow.

“I was hoping for some classic supercell structures but the thing’s so outflow dominant and high pre-sip that that’s not happening. However,” Dean trails and wiggles his eyebrows. “Sometimes these squall lines can do something eerie as hell.”

Castiel will address that vague comment later but, “_High pre-sip_?”

“Ah, right, sorry. High precipitation. Just means there’s a lot of rain near the core of the storm.”

“And what do you mean by eerie?”

“Ever heard the tale of Jonah?” 

“What does he have to do with it?”

“Put your seatbelt back on,” is all Dean responds with as he listens to his own instructions. While he waits for Cas to follow, he pulls out a paper map of Kansas. Castiel had no idea they were still selling those and, from the date on the top, he knows it’s current.

“A map?”

“More accurate than google. That damn thing will tell you there are roads where they ain’t and get you in a slew of trouble. You need a couple of good exit routes in this job or you’re dead, even if you’re just driving into a squall. Better safe than sorry.” The paper crunches as Dean folds it down the wrong way and shoves it into the compartment in the driver door. “Besides, I wanna make sure there’s a road that’ll keep Baby away from all the hail.”

“Is that why you use a Jeep in your videos?”

“Do you know how much money it costs to keep her cherry without constantly putting dents in her?”

“Touché.” 

“Now,” Dean says as he puts the Impala in gear. He grins, “let’s ride.”

This is the first time he’s felt trepidation sitting in Dean’s car and looking out the window as they drive away from Ottawa. Whatever is crawling towards them in the sky is nasty looking. From his YouTube education, he can make out scuds cropping up like jagged teeth under the squall. He can feel his heart in his throat as he searches desperately for any sign that clouds are rotating, but it’s all moving in different directions and Castiel is deeply out of his element. Then, the sheet of rain underneath it thins and starts to dissipate, looking like a transparent grey fog. A section of the clouds to his left, a little further down the road begins to bow outward.

Dean drives them closer to the storm. Castiel watches Dean’s ease as he navigates the streets under the storm and lets that lull him into safety. He leans his head against the window and watches the clouds roll closer, faster than they had before and then Dean takes a turn and another and Castiel has to lean forward to lookup out of the windshield in awe.

“Welcome to the Whale’s Mouth.”

The cloud has rolled over them, gaping, curling under itself to swallow them whole. Gone is the smooth, outer appearance. Underneath they’re bubbly, tumultuous, ragged, and teal and gray. It’s mesmerizing, like being trapped under rough water and crashing sea foam. It is eerie. 

Dean isn’t driving fast so Castiel can see the wind whipping through the tall grass. There’s lightning flickering in the darker clouds in the center of the storm. Occasionally it branches down to the ground.

“What did you call it?”

“The Whale’s Mouth.”

“Can I have a picture when we get back to Lawrence? I’ll credit you.”

“Don’t see why not. Wouldn’t you want lightning or a tornado?”

“No. I think I just found a title for my article.”

*****

The bed is shaking. There’s pressure on his shoulder. Cas buries his face into the pillow and tries to ignore his soon-to-be-dead boyfriend.

“Cas, get up.”

He opens an eye to look at the green numbers on his alarm clock. If three in the morning is too early to be awake, it’s probably too early to commit murder. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to go back to sleep.

“Come on, Cas! We got to go if we want to get there in time.”

Cas takes his spare pillow and slams it into Dean’s face. He makes a muffled squawk and tumbles to the floor. Cas sits up to glare. Dean’s blinking dumbly up at him from the floor with the pillow in his lap. He’s dressed in clothes distinctly not meant for sleeping in and there’s a duffle next to him near the end of the bed.

“What are you doing? How’d you get in?”

“Charlie gave me the spare key when we started dating.” Dean flips the pillow from his lap and lumbers to his feet. He walks to turn on the light and smiles when he turn back to Cas. “Your hair is fantastic.”

Castiel’s hands fly to his head and try to flatten it into place, but he knows it’s fruitless and settles on trying powers of telekinesis. Dean whistles.

“If looks could kill.”

“Waking me at three in the morning would make it justifiable.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got good reason.” Dean sits on the edge. “I’ve got a buddy, Benny, who does what I do, ‘cept he’s from Louisiana and focuses more on hurricanes.”

“Point, please.”

“He works as a night chef at a twenty-four-hour place in Shreveport.”

“Dean.”

“Getting there. We got a system we work on. I watch his neck of the woods during the day and he watches mine at night. We’ll call if there’s anything promising and he called ‘bout forty-five minutes ago.”

Sleep is hanging heavy over Cas still and he’s taking a while to catch up when Dean hops up and opens his closet. He starts pulling out t-shirts and pants before going over to Cas’ dresser and going for his socks and underwear. All Cas can do is watch him from where his waist and legs are tangled in blankets and sheets. If he’d had coffee, he’d be offended Dean’s digging freely through his boxer-briefs. Dean stops what he’s doing to look at Cas.

“What are you doing? Get up, get dressed. I’ll get you some coffee on the way.”

“The way from to where?”

“Peoria. We’ll get there about noon.”

“Illinois? Why?”

“Tornadoes, Cas. Tornadoes.”

“Hey, Cas. Wake up.”

Castiel floats between the state of sleep and awake. His eyes are closed and he’s been listening to the low volume of Dean’s classic rock station on the radio. He hears the rumble of the Jeep’s engine it’s steady vibrations helping to keep him in his lulled state. The only sound he hears outside of the car are its tire treads kicking up loose gravel into the wheel wells as they glide down the empty highway. Dean’s voice is tempting to answer, but there’s only so many times the man can keep waking him up before he suffers bodily harm and Cas keeping his head slumped against the glass window appeals more. 

“Cas, look.”

This time Cas opens his eyes, wondering if their relationship is worth it. At first, all he can see are the car’s headlights flooding light out onto the black asphalt. It’s disorientating. Apart from what the Jeep illuminates, its pitch dark beyond that. He catches glimpses of grass or weeds crawling out from the side of the road but the empty fields or distant clusters of trees are lost. Castiel can imagine spirits lurking in the stalks. He can almost see them out there, waiting.

According to the clock in the dash, they’ve only been driving for an hour and other than being somewhere between Lawrence and Peoria, he has no idea where they are. He’s about to ask what Dean woke him for when he sees it. 

Lightning bursts through the night in the distance. It stretches from one cloud to another, shadowing the turbulent shapes in white light. Cas sits up to stare out the windshield. Other strikes illuminate the inside of the clouds, turning them lovely shades of pinks and blues and lilacs. It’s a show mother nature is putting on.

Castiel errantly thinks there should be club music playing and he snorts at himself, causing Dean to look at him strangely through the dim light. He just shakes his head and leans it back against the window and watches the strobing in the clouds until his eyes are falling shut again.

Dean starts singing. It’s quiet, soothing…slightly off-key. Cas isn’t sure how long he keeps it up but rain begins to splatter against the windshield. Castiel opens his eyes to see the sky has lightened the clouds from pitch black to a lighter grey. Dean’s driving the car through a quiet area of some town until he finds a twenty-four-hour truck stop that’s fairly empty.

“You want some coffee?”

“You have to ask?”

“Alright, stay here.”

Cas lifts his head from the window and tips his head side to side to stretch out stiff muscles. He watches through the windows as Dean leans up against the counter and gives a flirty grin to the older woman working the counter. She doesn’t seem overly pleased but it doesn’t look like she’s scolding him. He leaves Dean to it and checks his phone for the time.

It’s almost seven in the morning. They’ve been driving for three hours and are probably only part of the way there. A quick search on google maps estimates they have another three hours to go. The name of his hometown catches his eye.

Pontiac is about an hour outside of Peoria. Not too far to make amends.

After their little trip into the whale’s mouth a few weeks ago, Castiel had sent his mother a brief text. He loves her but is frustrated and angry and he’s sorry he missed Easter. He just wants some space.

She seemed to understand, given that her response had been to tell him to take his time.

Two and a half months is enough, right?

He’s contemplating sending another text message. Telling her he’ll be around, maybe introduce her to his boyfriend.

Said boyfriend knocks his elbow against the window. He has a tray with coffee in one hand and a bursting bag in the other. Castiel leans over to pop open the door and Dean slides in.

“Coffee blacker than the devil’s soul for the grumpy angel and massive breakfast burritos for the road.”

Castiel makes grabby hands at his mug and takes a sip, burning his lip and tongue but letting the caffeine wash through him. Dean balances the greasy brown bag on the gear shift as he hops in. He takes his own coffee from the tray and tosses the cardboard in the back. With his free hand, he shoves the keys in the ignition and turns the engine over. 

He digs into the bag and drops a foil-wrapped monstrosity into Castiel’s lap.

“What is that?”

“Fully loaded breakfast burrito. Two thousand five hundred calories of deliciousness you can only get from seedy joints.”

“You’re going to die of a heart attack next week.”

“Burrito induced cardiac arrest isn’t the worst way to go.”

“Well, I won’t be happy,” Castiel mumbles as he tucks his coffee between his legs and unwraps his food. Dean’s already digging into his own.

“Promise to have a salad for lunch.” It’s garbled behind egg and potatoes. It gross and little disturbing that he can swallow that much food at one, but Castiel finds himself oddly endeared and Dean sounds like he means it.

They reach Peoria around one-thirty in the afternoon and Dean immediately pulls into the parking lot of a small motel. Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to keep Cas in the car but after several hours of sitting, stretching his legs to walk to the front desk seems heavenly. But it's immediately apparent why Dean wanted him the car. 

There’s a young boy sitting on a stool behind the desk. He can’t be more than eleven or twelve and he’s flipping through a car magazine. When the bell over the entrance dings, he looks up and does a double-take. A big grin appears on his face.

“Dean! Hey, mom! It’s Dean!” The boy practically vaults over the counter to throw his arms around Dean's waist. A few moments later, a woman rounds the corner from an attached office with another small boy on her heels, tucked closely to her leg.

She’s smiling sweetly at Dean and even the other boy gives a shy wave.

“Dean, it's been a while.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry about that. This year’s been a little dry.” Dean ruffles the boy's hair as he takes a step back and out of his arms. “ Hey, Mike? You giving your mom a hard time?”

“He has his moments,” the woman says.

“Hey!”

“So, there must be a pretty bad one brewing if you’re here,” she continues ignoring her eldest son’s protests.

“Just keep that weather radio handy, alright.” Dean’s face is solemn enough to cause some concern for both Cas and the woman. 

She casts a glance at her two kids. “Okay, thanks, Dean.”

Dean tries to lighten the mood with a flirty grin. “Is that discount still usable, Joanna?”

She rolls her eyes and clicks on the computer. “Two doubles?”

“Uh, king. If you want?” Dean angles the question at Cas and the other occupants in the room seem to notice he’s there.

“That’s fine.” Because it wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a sleeping space before. The amount of times they’ve fallen asleep on the couch together the past few months has made awkward mornings obsolete.

“A king.” The tone’s teasing but Mike elbows Dean in the hip and Dean retaliates by putting him in a headlock and giving him a noogie. Cas watches, stupefied.

“My youngest was real sick when Dean and his brother came into town a couple of years ago. Dean kept Michael occupied while I was in and out of the hospital. Came home to a thoughtful little helper after that too.” 

Castiel turns his attention back to Dean. Michael is showing him a picture from his magazine and asking Dean's opinion of it. According to the audible noise of protest he makes, Dean doesn’t approve.

“You’ve got yourself a good one. Here’s your key.” 

Dean’s ushering him out of the lobby a few moments later and Castiel has to suppress a grin. He doesn’t say anything until they're pulling their duffel from the Jeep's backseat.

“You’ve slept with her.”

Dean freezes then shrugs his shoulders, walking towards their room. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not upset. Amused, maybe.” 

“Amused? Meeting an ex is funny?”

“No, but your determination to pretend as if nothing had happened was.”

Dean misses the key card slot and turns to glare at Cas, cheeks red.

“I thought she was pleasant,” Cas adds as he walks past Dean through the door he’d managed to open. He loses all desire to continue teasing when he sees the bed. The sight of it makes him weak in the knees and he drops his duffle on the floor at the foot of it before he crawls on top of it to put his face in the pillow.

“Cas, what’re you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“You did that on the way here.” When Castiel doesn’t acknowledge him, he hears Dean laugh and set down his own bags. The motel door closes and locks. “We gotta a couple hours before things get really intense anyway. I’m gonna shower.”

“Mmm,” Cas groans into the pillow.

After the bathroom door closes, Castiel rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling fan, watching it rotate on its lowest setting. It’s not too hot yet but just from being in the parking lot, Castiel can tell that today’s going to be unpleasant and sticky. He makes a note to turn the air conditioning on as they leave for the day.

Cas sits up and looks around the room. It’s nothing special; there’s a bed, a small desk under the window, and a dresser with a television on it. The bathroom’s adjacent to the entrance and the shower is running. It’s nice enough, probably nicer than it would be if Dean hadn’t been romantic with the owner. It makes Dean wonder if he has any other connections across the Midwest for his chases.

Decidedly not as tired as he thought he was, he makes his way to the foot of the bed and opens his bag, He pulls out his dad’s little journal. There are only two entries left. His father claimed to be a man of few words and, although eloquent and emotional, it seems to extend into the frequency of his writing. From what Castiel could gather, the man was keener to write articles or opinion pieces that wouldn’t affect him directly. He had tons to say about the Invasion of Iraq or the importance of the bee population for rural farmers, but his family? Apart from glimpses, Castiel can’t say he knows the man any better than he had since he’d learned how to use the internet in middle school.

It’s frustrating because his mother had toted this as being the missing link like it would fill in the gaps. Maybe they had, for her. She had gaps to fill to but Castiel has a huge, yawning hole. This journal is like a wooden bridge with two-thirds of the planks missing and swinging wildly over that hole.

He opens the book to the second to last entry and is shocked by the animosity in the opening sentence.

_Dear Castiel,_

_ Colette is exceptionally stubborn and short-sighted and has no concern for our collective well-being. As much as I love her, I can never be more upset with anyone other than her. She’s testing my patience as she considers the “pros and cons.” There are no “cons.” This assignment will make us more money than I’ve been able to bring in and with you on the way, we’ll need it. But she can’t see that. Or doesn’t want to. _

_You’re only a few months away and, though we have a nursery set aside, you need somewhere to sleep and diapers to wear. It’ll only be a few weeks and then I don’t have to leave the paper for a long time after. I could even stay home most days and work from the computer. I could bond with you when your mother goes back to work at the school._

_But, your mother..._

The entry doesn’t end with his father’s signature. Cas scans the page and turns it to look at the back, squinting at the paper to see if it continued but faded from time. There’s nothing.

“What’re you reading?” Dean asks. 

The shock is so bad, Castiel slams the journal closed with an audible snap as he jumps up from the bed. His heart is hammering and he’s left in an embarrassing aftershock when he realizes he’s’ overreacted. 

“It was something dirty, wasn’t it?” Dean teases and takes the towel he as around his neck and rubs it over his head a few times. The collar of his grey t-shirt is a bit damp from his hair dripping but he’s dry and clothed otherwise in jeans with one hand holding his old clothes. He reaches back into the bathroom to hang the towel and walks over to the desk. He flops into the chair and spins it to face Cas. “Penthouse forum?” He tosses his old clothes onto the top of his bag.

Dean’s joking calms Cas’ heart rate and he sets the journal back in his bag. He sits back down on the bed, reaching down to take off his shoes. He folds himself onto the bed, “That would be disturbing, considering it’s my dad’s journal.”

Dean scrunches up his face, “Yeah, I probably would burn my dad’s if I found anything remotely dirty.” He reaches back into what Castiel has termed the “gear bag” and pulls out his own weather-beaten journal. He wiggles it back and forth. “Dad kept tips and tricks in here. It’s also fairly personal. Helped me understand him sometimes, especially after mom. He wasn’t one for speaking words, but it’s all here.”

“It answered some questions?”

“Sure. Even ones I hadn’t asked. He liked to frame their marriage as perfect. Turns out that that wasn’t the case. They had a fight before the storm, and the guilt went with him when he wrapped himself around a pole.” He forces the journal back inside the gear bag and pulls his laptop out, and settles it on the desk.

Castiel frowns at his forced nonchalance. Dean’s dad is a touchy subject, he knows. From snippets he could gather, John wasn’t the greatest after Mary died, but Dean’s still clinging on to hazy memories of the man teaching him to ride a tricycle or throwing a ball on his home’s front lawn. Sam doesn’t seem fond of the man the few times he’s come up on their Friday night movie marathons. Cas can’t really have an opinion but he definitely doesn’t approve of the man’s decision to drag his two young boys through deadly weather. 

“So, it looks like NOAA isn’t changing their predictions.” Dean turns away from his computer and slouches back, twisting himself side to side on the swivel chair. “I’ve got some friends in the area. Chasers. When they’re around here, they hole up at this diner ten minutes outside the city. How about one of the best burgers in the world?”

Ellen, Ash, and Jo are an odd trio. Ellen and Jo are mother and daughter respectively and Ash had started out as their tech guy but has quickly transferred over into adopted son territory. Cas feels Dean falls somewhere in the same category by the way he lights up when he catches sight of them. Ellen swoops him up in a big hug before cuffing him over the ear with a scolding to call more often. Jo does pretty much the same before grilling Dean ten ways to Sunday about who Cas was before turning to him and doing the same thing. When she was done, the teasing ensued, like an annoying sibling. Ash simply handed Dean his half-drunk beer in greeting and went back to clacking the keys on his computer.

Cas leaves Dean to catch up, talking about life updates but most of the conversation is taken up by meteorological jargon that Cas can sort of understand but he spends too much time trying to remember the correct definitions that the conversation has moved on to something else by the time he’s figured it out. He still listens, quietly enjoying his burger without moaning over it because Dean was right. For the most part, he enjoys watching Dean smile and laugh.

“And you’re just along for the ride?”

Cas almost chokes on a garlic fry at being addressed. 

“He’s got this senior project to do. He wanted to write on chasers,” Dean says proudly, throwing his arm across the back of the booth.

He settles in against Dean’s side and lets himself feel warm and fuzzy.

They leave the diner half an hour later when Ash spoke up and said that all the predictions the weather service were making shifted half an hour east. That got them all out of their seats, throwing money on the table and making the way to their calls. Ellen, Jo, and Ash leave first, peeling away to get the highway while Dean takes his time to look at different radar images.

“Why don’t we just follow them?” Cas asks.

“They tend to go in a little risky. Hook splicing or just driving too close. I trust them to know when they’re in danger, but it’s a little much, especially when I got a rookie in the passenger seat.” Dean pulls out his giant crumpled map.

Storm chasing is boring. They’ve been driving around for going on four hours. It’s nearly six in the evening and the sun is starting to set in the sky. Dean’s stopped driving multiple times muttering about “outflow” and trying to find a prospective storm. Castiel spent most of his time tracking where they’ve gone on his own GPS. It feels like they’ve gone up and done the entire state of Illinois. Castiel’s back is starting to ache and he’s getting hungry and Dean’s also getting frustrated with the lack of usable footage, changing out his camera’s memory card every time they come across a dud.

All of Peoria and the surrounding area has been under countless tornado warnings, but nothing’s spawned anything visible. Dean says the NWS gets a little overzealous when they catch even the smallest amount of radar indicated rotation over a populated area. They’re sitting in a church parking lot in a little suburban area outside of Bloomington when Dean’s cell phone starts ringing. 

“Yeah?” He answers gruffly, still waiting for the radar images to update. His eyes get big. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Looking at it right now. Holy shit. Ash, I’m gonna need you to update my computer after all of this.” He hangs up and bends over his computer zooming in on a radar image and flipping between two layers. One of which Cas hasn’t seen before.

“What’s that?”

“A velocity scan. It measures wind speed. When you see these reds and greens next to each other like this, it means there’s rotation.” He points to a spot on the radar. “It’s not big now, but it’s got more potential then we’ve seen all day.” Dean puts the Jeep in gear and gets on the nearest road. 

*****

There’s a massive cloud towering over them in the distance, white and bubbly and almost innocuous, fanning out at the top while the bottom remains obscured by little hills and valleys. Dean keeps leaning to look up through the windshield and whistle appreciatively, completely ignorant of Castiel’s silent panic.

He’s been trying his mother’s phone for the past ten minutes and watched horrified as Dean’s radar image went tornado warned by spotter confirmation, which means there’s one on the ground. There isn’t an answer because everything he tries goes straight to voicemail. His anxiety rises the closer they get and when they’re fifteen minutes out, Dean’s weather radio springs to life.

“You're approaching a twisting storm.” The automated voice rings out, followed by counties included in the warning, the storm’s direction, time of impact, and directions on how to take shelter.

“We’ll run parallel to it and keep south.” Dean pulls off onto a paved road that quickly dissolves into rural dirt back roads, well maintained by farmers coming to-and-fro in their own trucks and tractors. They’re stuck in a dip of a small valley for a few more minutes until one of their roads lifts them up a hill and they’re giving a sight Cas won’t ever forget.

The sky has been getting gradually darker the closer they got to storm, which Cas expected, but what he sees under the cloud base is petrifying. It’s a dense, dark gray and green mass, swirling rapidly. Dean fumbles with the car’s radio, trying to find a local station to give them updates. When he finds one, radio hosts are calmly telling people in affected areas to take shelter until it’s safe to come out. No one is in a state of panic and it settles Cas’ nerves for a moment.

Until Dean skids the Jeep to a halt at the top of the hill; Cas can feel the gravel moving under unmoving tires.

“Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” He mutters. He’s on his computer again, zooming and enhancing the image. Another, newer scan is coming in, and Dean repeats himself.

Cas is afraid to ask. “What?”

“The rotation’s unbelievable and it’s made a hard right.” Dean looks up out of the windshield. He squints into the grey base of the clouds. “There.” He points to the west end of the storm. And then repeats himself, “Shit.”

Castiel watches as a piece of the cloud lowers, tapering to point down at the ground before receding just as quickly and another, thicker version, touches down just to the left of where it originally did. But behind that one, a third one appears and the first one is quick to follow. Now it looks like live a vending machine claw, the three arms spinning around each other, dancing as they rip up dirt and trees keeping the spaces between the other. There are three tornadoes on the ground in the same area and Cas’ horror is back.

“Three?”

“No, much worse. One big, violent one.”

Sure enough, those empty spaces fill in so quickly that Cas can barely blink before there’s nothing but a massive black wedge of cloud and wind sitting on the near horizon. Dean angels the camera strapped to his dash at the storm and pulls out his cell phone. From what he can make out, he’s making a report to a police station and a few moments later, an eerie horn rings out across empty fields and through nearby towns. 

The winds pick up around them, rocking the Jeep back and forth where they’re parked. Lighting flashes around them, finally touching the ground in think smooth lines, in rapid succession always following by the air cracking around them. Cas didn’t think the sky could get darker.

Dean pulls a sharp U-turn in the middle of the road and speeds back the way they came, making a left at a road they passed earlier to try to keep parallel to the storm. But further away from it. Dean turns around to face it and parks again. This time he rolls down his window and puts his head through it. He isn’t talking. Not explaining a damn thing. And that makes Cas more nervous.

He’s usually always talking through what he’s doing, what the clouds and wind are doing, why something isn’t working. Now, he focuses his attention on the sky and his radar map. 

The steady drone of the weather radio repeating the same warning over and over drowns out the car’s radio where news hosts sound confused as they hand over their show to meteorologists. That catches Dean’s focus and he shuts off the weather radio in favor of turning up the car’s. 

Urgency is evident. Meteorologists are urging people inside and underground and repeating that it’s a large, violent tornado. Chasers they’ve managed to get on the phone are being swallowed by the howling of the wind or shouting orders at their drivers to floor it. 

“Christ,” Dean whispers. 

“What?”

“It’s changed direction again. Northeast. Straight for a populated area.”

There’s only one in the area that Castiel knows of but he’s really hoping Dean will name some obscure town he’s never heard of despite living in the area his entire life.

“Where?”

“_You need to be underground. No one is surviving this thing unless you’re underground._” A man wails over static.

“Pontiac.”

Dean zig-zags through dirt roads, trying to keep his distance but have good angles for the camera to catch. He’s still not talking, which is fine because Castiel is wrapped up in his own guilt and turmoil because he can’t do anything but watch as a monster spawn of mother nature winds itself closer to his hometown. Helpless needs more synonyms. 

The last thing he said to his mother was that he’d needed to be left alone and now she’s awaiting certain death because his childhood home doesn’t have a basement.

“Lift, lift, lift,” Dean mumbles while taking some pictures as they’re parked on the crest of another hill. 

Through the thick rain that’s falling, he can glimpse the tip of the spire of the courthouse above the trees. A flash pulls his attention away from the building because it didn’t look like lightning. He can’t see the tornado anymore. It’s wrapped up so densely in rain that the structure of the funnel is practically obscured. Until he realizes that the giant sheet of falling rain is the tornado. Another flash. It’s at the base of the tornado, near the ground and he watches for a few more moments as it rips through the edge of town, exploding power boxes and yanking power lines from the ground. 

And the sound, a ghastly, howling in the distance accompanied by thunder.

Then it hits the first house. Blows it apart, nothing like _Wizard of Oz_. Whole chunks of the house doesn't come up and fly gracefully through the air. It splinters into thousands of pieces, disintegrated. From his distance, the two by fours look like toothpicks. Chasers are still yelling at meteorologists on the news, describing the scene from their vantage point. Cas looks to Dean, hoping that maybe he could find some solace, hope, but the man simply lowers the camera from his face and watches in real-time in horrified astonishment. Cas knows that this isn’t your standard storm.

Watching it enter town is… Castiel doesn’t have words. He feels so powerless. All he can do is watch, tears threatening to spill over as he watches his life be sucked into the mouth of the tornado and crushed, flipped, ripped, and blown into fragments. But the strange thing is, he feels detached from all of it. He knows old friends, neighbors, even his mother could be dead or dying under all the rubble but witnessing it unfold fifteen miles away feels like an out of body experience.

Awesome, in the oldest definition of the word.

Dean hasn’t been taking pictures for the last ten minutes, as stunned as Cas his, with his hand over his mouth as he stares through the windshield. As another building is demolished, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, dipping it to his chest in what looks like a silent prayer, which means a lot coming from someone as lacking in faith as Dean. When he looks back up, he settles his camera in his lap, but the one on the dash is still recording as the twister tears its path.

It’s almost cleared the town limits, rain tailing it like a God-given burial shroud.

“We gotta go help,” Dean says. He flips the radio off and goes to put the car in gear.

“Dean.”

He pauses, looking at Cas.

“Did I tell you where I’m from?”

Confusion settles on Dean’s face; he’s poised to ask a question before he visibly pales after assessing Castiel’s own grim expression. He starts shaking his head in disbelief. “No.”

“My mom…”

Rain begins to fall on the Jeeps hardtop cover, pattering lightly across it just to juxtapose the scene they’d witnessed. A determined frown settles on Dean's face.

“Well, let’s go get her.”

*****

Castiel doesn’t recognize the streets he grew up on. The sun has almost set and it’s nearing eight o’clock at night. From the headlights of the Jeep, he could make out some of the street lights, which should be illuminating his childhood neighborhood, flipped sideways or sticking out of houses. Or what was left of houses. When Dean can’t drive the car any further, he parks off to the side, where the curb of a sidewalk should be. There’s two by fours and chunks of roof littering the street. Castiel can see power lines drooping across piles of debris and trees that had lined the road have been viciously uprooted and twisted through windows and through car doors. There’s even an old pick up balanced precariously in an old oak tree that managed to stay put, albeit with all of its leaves and a few branches missing.

Castiel remembers his mother reading books to him under that tree and his stomach is pressure in his throat when he tries to see through the dark and rain, looking for an outline of his home, where his mother played Knights and Dragons with him, always placating Castiel by being the dragon slain by the knight as they chased each other in a dance around the kitchen table. Where they made a mess of the countertops trying to make Oobleck with cornstarch and water for a science experiment. Where his mother hugged him and cried and told him she could never be prouder of him for getting into KU.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean twist himself to reach over the seat, pushing aside some bags and jackets and reaching blindly around the floor of the backseat. He makes a triumphant sound that catches Cas’ attention. When he looks, Dean has two Maglites. He hands one out to Cas silently and drops his own on the seat beside him before reaching back again to grab the jackets he just pushed aside. He presses it to Cas’ chest.

They zip up, pull their hoods up and get out of the car. 

The sound is horrendous.

If Castiel thought the tornado itself sounded like a deadly void of wind and metal bending as it ripped through the city, it had nothing on the aftermath.

In the distance, there’s a distinct electrical zapping from a fallen powerline. Wood is creaking as it tries to support weight it just can’t anymore. Rain hits the thick fabric of items that shouldn’t be exposed to weather. Curtains snap in the wind.

But on top of it are the voices.

The few lucky survivors that have made it to the surface are stumbling around in shock, muddy and bleeding, looking like the better half of a zombie film, calling out for people they can’t find. Worst of all, Castiel can hear the sobs and gasps and _screams_ of people trapped beneath the rubble.

He almost trips when a woman shrieks in pain as she’s freed. Dean catches his elbow and pulls him forward.

“Where’s your mom’s place?”

Castiel doesn’t look at him, watching as the woman is pulled from the rubble covered in dirt and blood, her foot twisted nauseatingly the wrong way.

“Cas? Your mom?” Dean tugs at Cas’ arm. It gets his attention enough that Cas just points at the oak with truck in it, not saying anything.

They climb over splintered wood and class, avoiding upturned cars as they wind their way to Cas’ house. When they’re in flashlight range of the house, Cas feels his heart drop. He does all he can to stay upright as he runs.

“Mom!” He screams.

Lightning from the passing storm illuminates what his flashlight only glimpses. His childhood home has been reduced to a pile of broken brick and framework like a horrifying version of Pick-up Sticks. Castiel can smell gas leaking into the air as he trips over what used to be his front porch. And Dean’s mother’s fate feels fresh in his mind.

“Mom!”

But Castiel can’t hear anything over the rumbling of thunder, unstable debris creaking, and other people shouting.

“Mom!”

Nothing. Fallen shingles break beneath his feet as he stands and stares into the rubble, willing her voice to find him.

Dean touches his elbow, a brush of fingers against his skin. “I’ll go ‘round back. What’s her name?”

Castiel’s hit with a freight train of realization that, despite the last few months of being in a car together, sharing their apartment couches together, eating meals, and doing everything else possible within a few feet of each other, he’s told Dean very little about his life. He stares at Dean for a moment, watching a bead of water fall from a wet strand of hair at his forehead and follows it briefly as his slides down his nose and around his mouth.

“Colette,” he murmurs. 

Dean nods tersely and sets off towards the backyard, calling for Cas’ mother. Castiel doesn’t have any hope for the rope swing that hung crookedly from the only sturdy tree back there. He sets out on the front of the house calling for his mother and waiting for her to answer, all the while feeling like it was his fault. He should have called her as soon as Dean dragged him to Peoria. It shouldn’t have mattered that the chance of hitting Pontiac was so slim it was almost meteorologically impossible for it to happen. Maybe some damaging wind, but nothing like this.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to be soaked to the bone, teeth chattering hard enough to hurt but he doesn’t stop searching underneath wood beams or behind tilted walls. But it’s enough time for Castiel to feel the stirrings of loss in his heart. His tears are warm against his cheeks and he stubbornly wipes them away and fights the urge to give up and fall to the ground like a toddler. He’s not yelling anymore, his throat won’t let him, but he doesn’t stop calling for her, desperate and lonely as a hole eats him up. He’s lost the only person he’s ever loved, he’s sure.

“Cas! Cas!”

Castiel sweeps his flashlight over to where he heard Dean’s voice. He’s crouched down next to where the back door should be, his own flashlight angled down into the rubble. When Dean’s sure he has Cas’ attention, he continues, “I’ve got her!”

A nail rips through his palm as Castiel trips over something trying to climb over the rubble to get to him. The pain is brief and he’s sure he’s twisted his ankle as well as he pulls himself back to his feet. It’s the quickest way and he can barely feel it. When he staggers next to Dean, there’s a bundle of towels at his feet, but Castiel only spares them a thought because he has to stand right up against him to help free his mother from the house. 

She’s stuck in what looks like a pocket, sitting on her knees as she tries to support the debris above as Dean starts moving planks and bricks. Cas sets his flashlight down and starts helping.

“Castiel?” She asks, voice small and wobbly.

“Hold on, mom.”

There’s an ominous creaking and a piece of the house falls away into the backyard. The smell of gas intensifies and Cas can’t tell if it’s coming just from his house or if the entire block is one match stick away from literal hell. Dean, who paused when the creaking started, doubles his effort, pulling piece by piece from the house, Jenga-like. They spend a while trying to open a hole wide enough to reach in and grab her. 

Neighbors and rescue workers arrive, most rushing off to other houses but a couple of people see Dean and Cas struggling and soon they have a team lifting sections of plaster and roofing. In a few minutes, they’ve opened hole wide enough to reach in for her. Castiel is pulled out of the way by firefighters asking if she can climb out. She must say something negative because Cas watches Dean willingly jump into a pit of glass and makeshift spikes to help lift his mother out. Dean pulls himself out without much help. EMTs have surrounded his mother and give the quickest physical Castiel’s ever seen before determining his mother isn’t critical enough for a trip in an ambulance but that she should be taken to a hospital immediately. Neighbors with undamaged cars or trucks jump to help, but Dean shoos them away.

Castiel falls to his knees in the torn-up lawn next to his mother and has her in his arms a moment later, squeezing her tight and sobbing into her neck.

“Shh… It’s alright. It’s alright.” She runs her hand over the top of his head, holding him tucked to her as she did when he was little. There’s another hand on his lower back that Cas can tell belongs to Dean.

“Let’s get to the car. I need to get you both to the hospital.”

He doesn’t remember much about that trip until he’s seated on his own gurney in an overly full ER waiting room as a nurse quickly stitches up his hand, administers a tetanus shot as a painful precaution, and wraps his ankle. A doctor is slightly concerned he’s in shock because he briefly can’t remember a few basic questions until they get him warm underneath some blankets. Castiel hadn’t even realized he was cold.

Dean has vanished and his mother has been taken back for CT scan to make sure the cut across her forehead was all cosmetic and that her broken leg and ribs are tended to properly. He’s swimming on a high of relief as he waits for news about his mother. 

He’s not waiting long before a nurse approaches him and takes him back to the room his mother is set up in, more eager to get him out of the rapidly filling space in the emergency room rather than actually in reuniting them.

His mother has been put under observation for the night for a concussion and a concerning blood pressure reading, but she didn’t seem to think there was any urgency to her health. Her right leg is cast to the knee and she has a square of white gauze taped to her forehead but she smiles big when she sees him and opens her arms from the hospital bed. Castiel walked straight to her and fell into her arms, gently and minding her ribs. 

It’s been a long couple of days, with little sleep and watching his first, massive tornado tear through his hometown, Cas wants to sleep for a long while. Pulling away, he steps back to seat himself in the stiff chair by his mother’s bed. She reaches out and rubs a gentle thumb under his eye, where there’s no doubt he has bags.

“Too much excitement?”

Castiel smiles and shrugs, “Probably.”

“Makes you look older.”

He catches a glimpse of a towel wrapped object at her bedside and gestures towards it. She sighs and nods, waving at him to bring it to her lap. When she unfolds it, it’s a photo album and a rock settles deep in his stomach when he thinks of what could be in there because it’s no photo album he’s ever seen. He wants to shout and get angry at her for risking her life but she opens it and he’s being shown pictures he’s never seen before. 

They’re wedding photos glued into the first pages and he recognizes his mother, though younger and more carefree, wrapped around a man who looks like Castiel’s twin. His eyes are dark, brown instead of blue – one of the only things it looks like he inherited from his mother. 

“Why did you never talk about him?”

“It was painful. I loved him so much and I was so young when I lost him. I didn’t know how to deal with the pain and I had a baby less than a month later. I was drowning.”

“What about me?” It feels selfish to turn this around on her, but it feels necessary. She shouldn’t have kept him to herself like she had. Painful or not he deserved to know his father and with his prospective career starting to fall apart around him before it’s even started, he needs to know about the man that he’s been chasing his whole life.

“You looked like him from the minute you were born and every day after that, it was like I couldn’t escape the pain. I needed so much help those first couple of years –”

“Don’t do that. I don’t deserve that. Just because I looked like him didn’t give you any right to hide him from me. I couldn’t find any information on him until I was in middle school and they taught us how to use the internet.”

“I’m sorry, Castiel.”

“I wanted to be a journalist for so long to try to reach him because I knew nothing. Not even his name.”

His mother is silent for a moment as she flips through pictures. Castiel can spot his mother under a big straw hat and obnoxiously large sunglasses smiling widely as his father takes shelter under the brim of her hat to press a hard kiss into her cheek. It’s off-kilter and crooked and his father’s eyes are squinted open as he tries to angle what Castiel suspects to be a disposable camera correctly.

“You’re right. You didn’t do anything to deserve that. After so much time passed, it got harder to bring up because I didn’t know where to start. But please believe me when I tell you I wanted to tell you about him. I didn’t know how. And tonight, to almost die and leave you not knowing…”

His mother looks to him with tears in her eyes and she runs her fingers through his hair to comfort him. “To leave you alone, like that. I’m so sorry.” She sniffs and wipes at her nose, IV cords knotting together. “Have you read it? Do you know him a little better?”

Cas sighs, “No. I mean, yes, I’ve read most of it, but, Mom, I didn’t know him at all.”

His mother nods. “How far did you get?”

“I have one entry left. And I don’t understand much more than I did before.”

Castiel takes the album out of her hands and closes it, sets it aside, and lays his forehead against the bed by her thigh. He turns his head to look at her and takes her hand in his. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, no matter how long he’s been waiting. His mother almost died tonight. And that feeling was so much worse when amplified by the guilt he has for not talking to her for nearly three months. He squeezes her hand and shuts his eyes while she continues stroking through his hair. His drifting when she pulls on a strand.

“It’s time to go Castiel. Go home with that boy who seems to like you so much. He seemed concerned you were going to contract gangrene on the way over here.”

At the mention of Dean, all traces of sleep leave Cas. He sits up and looks around. They’re alone in the room for now, but his mother has been pushed over to one side of the room for when the hospital will need more room. Outside in the hall, nurses and doctors and med students are rushing around, hustling people from one area to another in varying states of injury. For some reason, the room feels quiet.

He reaches for his phone, but his pocket is flat, empty. He pats his other three and assumes it’s somewhere in Dean’s car. 

“I don’t -,” Castiel starts.

“The waiting room seems like a good place to start.”

Leaving his mother is the last thing he wanted to do. He started to protest, saying that he’d find Dean and come back, stay the night. That plan was dashed when a nurse all but burst in with another patient being rolled in behind her. He can’t get a good glimpse of the man but, as he’s being ushered out of the room by the woman telling him he can’t stay for occupancy reasons, he does briefly see a bloody bandage wrapped around the man’s head. He’s guided through double doors and out to the waiting room again.

It’s loud, messy, and reminiscent of a school of fish, all waiting for direction and information on which way their loved ones are. How he finds Dean in the crowd is a miracle. There’s a break, a couple people nearly jumping over him to follow a doctor, and he sees Dean sitting slouched in a far corner of the room. His head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed and brows pinched like he’s in pain. Castiel pushes through the remaining people to get to him.

The right side of Dean’s face is scuffed up, nothing deep or even bruised. The scraps are shiny though. A nurse probably handed him a tube of Neosporin and told him to do it himself. His hands are in his lap, and his left wrist his wrapped much like Castiel’s ankle, which throbs in sympathy. Cas reaches out to touch Dean’s shoulder.

He jerks and his eyes fly open, they’re red and damp. He quickly wipes them and stands, taking Cas’ wrist into his good hand.

“Your mom?”

“Fine, right now. They’ll keep her overnight.”

Dean pulls him closer and flips Cas’ hand between them to appraise the bandage wrapped around there. “You?”

“Tetanus shot and sprained ankle.”

Dean clears his throat and looks over the heads of everybody else. Cas is bumped closer into Dean. “Did you get a chance to see her? If you didn’t, I can -”

“Dean, what happened?”

Dean looks down at him and tries to smile. It doesn’t make it. “Nothing. Really. Just bad memories.”

There isn’t much they can do; they’re just taking up space that can be utilized by doctors. They both seem to agree that leaving is probably best. They’ll come back in the morning to see his mom, maybe help salvage the wreckage that is Cas’ home.

There’s a hollow pit in his chest as Dean navigates through debris-laden streets. He solemnly points out his old high school as they drive by; it’s nothing but a pile of bricks and window panes. 

That pit only grows when the headlights catch a glint off the undercarriage of an overturned truck just off the highway into town, in an empty pasture clearly in the middle of the path of the tornado. Dean pulls over, because he has to check, and jogs out into the rain again with his flashlight. Cas is slower because of his ankle and only manages to get halfway before Dean is shouting at him and waving a hand, urging him away.

“Don’t! Just stay there!”

Cas doesn’t listen. Dean’s on the phone, speaking urgently, quickly. Cas sweeps his own flashlight across the field, catching sight of a camera, a Nikon, a little broken and twisted but not unlike the one Dean props up on his dash. There’s more of the same scattered in the grass: spare lens, a suitcase blown open with various wires, and even a laptop ripped in half. Glass sparkles in the light until it’s dimmed and dulled by blood.

“Cas!” Dean warns.

He should learn to listen. 

The drive back to Peoria is quiet. Dean doesn’t even have the radio on. Castiel spends it trying to pinch himself out of a dream he_ has_ to be in right now. It doesn’t work.

It’s raining when the get back to the motel and they still don’t say anything; Dean gets a phone call from Benny a few minutes after they walk through the door but he only murmurs into the receiver and Cas can barely hear him. Especially when his father’s journal catches his attention. It’s laying on the bedside table where he left it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and turns it over in his hands. There’s a single page left to read and it would be easy, quick. But what would he get out of it? There’s no point if he doesn’t understand the man who wrote it.

The journal finds its place at the bottom of Cas’ duffle. He doesn’t want to know anymore. All he wants is some sleep.

*****

Castiel’s eyes are sticky and dry when he opens them. For the most part, the room’s dark and Dean is still a warm presence behind him. There’s blue light faintly flickering against the walls, but the television’s turned off and Cas can’t hear any sound. That is until the window he’s facing lights up. It’s gone just as quickly but is immediately followed by thunder. The glass rattles in its frame and the sound shakes the bed. Rain begins to fall, but nothing like the blinding downpour they were trapped in the earlier. It’s a soft splatter in contrast to the rumbling of the storm. 

A part of him wants to panic, seek shelter in the motel tub with the mattress over his head. After the day he’s had, he thinks it’s justifiable. His mother is still recovering in the hospital and if Dean weren’t behind the wheel, Castiel would’ve willing drove them into certain death. And discovering those other chasers… Castiel takes a deep breath to rid himself of the image.

A flash. Rumble.

Through the gap in the curtain, he watches lightning crawl, branch, and twist into different directions in whites, blues, and pinks. This is the other part of Castiel. He’d happily watch this for hours and never look away. Dean’s fascination has certainly rubbed off by now and Cas thinks it’s good that he’s not petrified. He wouldn’t continue along with Dean if he jumps and flinches every time the wind blows too hard. A knot twists in his gut when he thinks about never seeing Dean again.

Flash. Rumble.

Dean shifts behind him, which shifts the faint blue light across the room. There’s the quiet clatter of Dean setting his laptop on the nightstand. Castiel’s on his side and can’t see what he’s doing but the tug of the sheets and shuffling feel like Dean’s laying down. The mattress dips closer at Cas’ back and he rolls with it to look up at Dean. He’s surprised, looking about halfway through getting comfortable and like he was about to snuggle up to Castiel’s back.

“You’re up.” Dean sounds a little embarrassed after being caught trying to spoon Cas.

“Yes. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for too long.”

“Just a couple hours.”

He scoots over slightly so Dean can lay down. Once he looks comfortable, Cas turns to his other side to settle his head on Dean’s chest. Facing this side of the room, he can see a radar image on Dean’s laptop. There’s a yellow quadrilateral surrounding Peoria and a ton of points marking lightning strikes. Cas’ heart rate notches up a bit.

“There isn’t any registered spin. We’ll be fine. Just some big hail and strong wind to be worried about tonight.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel closes his eyes, just to rest a little more, but when he opens them again, the room’s darker and he can feel Dean’s light snoring rumble in his chest next to his steady heartbeat. Lightning flashes and lights up the room again, but the roar of thunder is quieter this time. It’s muffled by the rain that beats against the window, heavier than earlier but lacking the deafening roar that would cause concern.

Dean’s warm and smells faintly of lavender and green tea from the motel’s complimentary soap. He must’ve taken a shower while Cas slept. He feels self-conscious and sits up. Standing in the rain, talking to paramedics about the overturned truck, washed off most of the mud but it’s just rainwater. He can feel his hair sticking up in every direction, supported by the sheer amount of grease he needs to wash out. Not to mention his mouth is fuzzy and tastes like warmed-over roadkill.

Castiel slips from underneath the sheets, careful not to wake Dean. He looks down at him and watches for a moment. The lack of Castiel’s weight on him wakes him for a moment, but only enough for him to roll over into Cas’ warm spot, onto his stomach and bury his face in the pillow. It exposes the side of his face that’s scratched and bruised across the cheekbone from trying to get Cas’ mother from her collapsing house. 

There’s a strange tightness in his chest as he watches Dean’s breathing even out. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Dean hadn’t been here with his level head. Or if he wasn’t in Castiel’s life at all. He’s sure he’d be home on the phone with emergency services telling him his mother had been a fatality. Grateful isn’t surmountable to what Cas feels for Dean.

He’s reveling in the fresh feel of soap in his hair when he’s struck by the fact that, apart from the last day, he’s had fun. Actually, since he’s started dating Dean, he’s had more fun on their dates and road trips in a while. 

The weird awkward phase Castiel’s had with other, albeit brief, relationships were non-existent. Dean just feels like he’s always been there, so comfortable and easy that it should be strange for him to realize he’s in love after only a few months.

He feels lighter after the shower realization, brushing his teeth, and nearly a full days’ worth of sleep that he’s a bit thrown off by how dark it is in the room when he walks out as he’s pulling his shirt over his head. He blinks in the direction of the bed for a moment as his eyes adjust and sees Dean sitting up, the blue light of his phone casting striking shadows across his face. He wonders what Dean will look like in ten years when he loses the rest of the softness around his face. He hopes he’ll be there to see it.

When Dean looks up, Cas can see that his hair, short as it is, is sticking up adorably and he looks lost in a sleepy haze as he processes Castiel standing in the bathroom door. 

“Hey, feel better?” He grumbles when he gains some function.

“Yes.”

Dean grunts out an affirmation and cracks his jaw with a yawn. 

Castiel feels a little bad for waking him up, because he’s sure he did, and crawls back into bed. Dean puts his phone aside and opens his arms. When Cas snuggles in, Dean dips his face into his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It could mean anything: sorry for his mom, sorry for his hometown, sorry for those chasers. Why Dean thinks it’s his fault is beyond Cas. 

“Why?”

“The last thing a chaser wants is for something like that to happen. We aren’t eager for mass destruction.”

“I wasn’t aware you controlled the weather. You didn’t tell it to hit Pontiac.”

Dean ignores him. “I was supposed to show you backlit stove pipe funnels, rainbows, and lightning against orange clouds. Do you know what red sprites are? You would love those.”

“But you wouldn’t have wanted me to write about all of that.” 

When Dean leans away from him to cast an upturned eyebrow, Cas continues. 

“Wouldn’t that be glorifying it? Encouraging anybody to hop into their cars and chase with nothing but an iPhone camera? I thought, maybe, the point could be cautionary. Those chasers, for example, their gear looked professional.”

“It was. Their truck setup, or what I could see, was too.”

A moment of silence falls between them. They’d arrived too late to do any good. At the very least, the families were informed immediately instead of days later. 

“I don’t want to write something that’ll end up killing kids.”

Dean huffs a laugh and relaxes back into the bed. “It wouldn’t be your fault, but, sure, I see your point.”

The wind angles the rain against the window and Cas can hear it rustling the leaves of nearby trees.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers. “For my mom, everything.”

Dean’s drifting back to sleep. Cas can hear it in the mumbled, “anything for family, Cas.”

He isn’t going to sleep for the rest of the morning. In fact, he slips out of bed again, once he knows Dean is fast asleep and sets up with a notepad and pen at the small desk. He turns on the table lamp and stares at the empty page. Knowing what to write about but not knowing how to start it is the bane of Castiel’s career. So he taps his pen against the page and waits for inspiration to come. The rain is still heavy outside and he can hear the makings of another thunderstorm in the distance. It’s nearing four in the morning; the sun will be rising in another hour or so, ready to reveal the damage that was inflicted overnight. But it’s a new dawn and all that.

Cas glances back at Dean, admires the bow of his mouth, the way his eyes flick back and forth underneath his lids. There’ll be a lot to talk about come morning, a lot to do in helping Pontiac and his mother. He has a final to write and college to graduate within the next couple of weeks. He wonders how long Dean will stick around through it all and then thinks that that’s a ridiculous thought. Dean’ll be there, he knows. Besides, that’s all in a future he doesn’t want to think about now. Right now, he’ll start with what happened yesterday.

_ “Yesterday, on May 28th, a tornado tore through my hometown…”_

Fin


End file.
